In the Hand of the Goddess (6 page)

“Alan of Trebond,” Delia murmured, her voice light and throaty. “I've heard of you, haven't I?” She tapped her rosy mouth with her fan, delicate dark brow carefully arched. Then she laughed merrily. “The ‘Squire's squire!' And you beat that dreadful knight from Tusaine. I think that's thrilling!”

Alanna bowed politely. “It was nothing, Lady Delia,” she murmured.

“Oh, but you're being modest. I'm sure no Tortallan thinks it was ‘nothing'—do you, gentlemen?” Delia asked the bristlingly jealous knights around her. Alanna knew very well that at the moment her friends were wishing
they
had beaten Dain, and that
she
was far, far away. In that Alanna was one with them. She didn't like Delia, and she
wanted to leave. “Do you dance, Alan of Trebond?” Delia asked now.

Jonathan, grinning wickedly, replied, “Of course he knows how to dance. He learned the steps as a page, as did we all.” Alanna promptly resolved to put something soft and squishy in her friend's bed—very soon.

“And he was always stepping on someone's feet,” Raoul muttered.

Delia placed her hand on Alanna's arm, rising gracefully from her chair. “I'm sure he dances beautifully now.” She laughed.

The Code of Chivalry was very specific about moments like this. Red as a beet, Alanna led Delia out onto the dance floor as the musicians struck up a waltz. She had never felt so ridiculous in her life. Delia was even taller than she was!

Carefully Alanna whirled Delia around the floor as the girl chattered about how kind everyone was, particularly Prince Jonathan. She knew now she didn't like Delia at all, and she felt very odd whenever Delia complimented Jonathan. Finally it was over, and she returned the young noblewoman to her admirers. Good manners or no, she was going. Even the Chamber of the Ordeal had to be better than dancing with a green-eyed flirt.

She bumped into Myles on her way out. Her friend was worse for wear, to put it mildly.

He toasted her with his glass of brandy. “Not sociable, Alan?” Myles asked. “You'd better learn to be. A knight is a social animal.”

“I'd sooner kiss a—”

“Don't, please. Sometimes you're too frank for an old man.”

Alanna looked him over. “Need help getting back to your rooms?” she asked.

“No. I'm staying to watch the pretty little Eldorne girl try to hook every eligible male at Court.”

Alanna clenched her jaw. “If she doesn't succeed, it won't be because she didn't try.”

Myles lifted both eyebrows. “Jealous about Jonathan?”

“Why should I be jealous about Jonathan?” she snapped.

Myles shrugged. “Some women like to break up men's friendships. If I were you, I'd keep that in mind.”

I'll stop by in the morning with my hangover remedy. It sounds as if you'll need it.” Sometimes the odd things Myles told her made too much sense for her peace of mind.

“You're a good human being, Alan. Too good to be caught up in Court games. Run along to bed.”

Alanna obeyed, thinking. By “Court games” Myles meant the tricks people used to win favor with important nobles, to get revenge on each other or to acquire power. Was that the kind of game Delia played? Whatever it was, it left a sour taste in Alanna's mouth.

It was a hard winter for Alanna, and she sometimes wondered if she spent all of it in a bad temper. The cold was worse than she could ever remember, biting into her bones at every turn. Too often she awoke shivering in the night, despite Faithful, plenty of hot bricks, and a well-banked fire. Once or twice she caught herself wondering what would happen if she climbed in with Jonathan! When the cold got that bad, she used her Gift to warm herself. The effort left her tired and cross in the morning, but to Alanna
anything
was better than feeling cold and thinking such thoughts. On days when she worked in the outdoor practice courts, she remembered the heat of the Great Southern Desert with longing.

The temperatures meant trouble at home, as well. Coram wrote her that early frosts had hurt the harvest,
and Alanna found herself busy arranging for food and warm clothing to be sent to Trebond. Coram was doing his best, but he had not had a great deal of time to bring the fief back from Lord Alan's neglect. More than once Alanna went to Myles and Duke Gareth for advice.
For someone who's never going to run a fief
, she often thought wryly,
I'm certainly getting plenty of practice.

That winter, as a preliminary test to prepare the squires for the Ordeal, they were required to spend a January night out in the open in the Royal Forest. Biting back an unreasoning feeling of terror—she would
not
freeze to death, if she took care—Alanna readied the things she would need. Out on her own, she burrowed deep into a snowbank and made a snug little cave for her tent and her furlined bedroll. A tree behind would keep off the worst of the drifts if more snow should fall. Faithful chose to keep her company, and he seemed much warmer than she felt (even though she wore fleece-lined leather over several layers of wool and silk clothing).

She had planned to go ice-fishing for her dinner, just to show Duke Gareth she
could
survive in the cold; but late in the afternoon a sudden blizzard rolled in, dousing the woods in the snow. Alanna
and Faithful secured themselves in their burrow, and from time to time Alanna thrust Lightning through the air to keep them from suffocating. For the rest of the night she and the cat slept—and talked. She knew it sounded like meowing to most other people, but to her Faithful talked as understandably as any human.

They had both fallen asleep toward dawn, when the blizzard's howling winds finally stopped. Alanna was dreaming of the desert and of a warm nap in the sun when she came wide awake. Something grunting and determined was digging in the snow overhead. Faithful's violet eyes glowed in the darkness beside her.

“I think it's a boar,” Alanna hissed as soundlessly as she could. “It figures.” Carefully, moving as little as possible, she worked Lightning up and free. When an ugly, cloven hoof burst through the beaten snow over the tent opening, Alanna thrust upward with all her strength. She burst from the snow, shaking clumps from her face, to feel her sword wrenched from her hand.

The boar was squealing with rage, trying to dislodge the blade that was driven through his chest and back. Suddenly he stiffened and fell. Alanna walked toward him carefully, seeing a glaze coming
over his eyes. Gripping her swordhilt to pull it free, she stopped; the boar's eyes were a demonic red. Suddenly he shuddered one last time—and vanished.

Wordlessly Alanna gathered up her things. She didn't need Faithful to tell her—as he was, forcefully—that someone had just tried to kill her: someone with a command of sorcery. “I have no proof,” she snapped, and that was the end of it. She would never tell anyone until she had proof.

On top of everything else, there was Delia. More than once that winter Alanna thought that if she heard the lovely girl's name once more, she would scream. Jonathan spent his free time writing bad poetry to Delia and insisting that Alanna listen to him read it. Gary and Raoul fought a duel over one of her riding gloves, and Duke Gareth sent them both on border patrols to cool off. The only good thing about this punishment was that they had to take Douglass and Sacherell with them; even those two had been bitten by romance.

Alanna continued to dislike the girl unreasonably, staying away from her as much as she could. She sometimes felt that Delia knew Alanna detested her. She also thought Delia liked to have Jonathan's squire giving her special service: fanning Delia when she was hot, bringing her glasses of lemonade, even dancing
with her; all activities that got Alanna into trouble with her lovesick friends. Jonathan went so far as to accuse her of using Delia to make her masquerade as a boy seem more believable! He later apologized, but it was their first big fight, and Alanna couldn't quite forgive Delia for being the cause.

Alanna was forced to listen when Jon ranted about Delia's flirtations with other knights, and she suffered through his attempts at poetry. She tried to be the best friend to him she could, because it was obvious (to her, if not to Jonathan) that Delia was toying with him. The girl would convince Jon one day that she was his alone, and ignore him the next. Soon they were sleeping together—sometimes. Which only made it worse. Jon was cross and elated by turns.

Only Alex and his squire, Geoffrey of Meron, seemed unaffected by Delia, and it was a welcome change to talk with them. It was during one such conversation with Alex on a windy day in March that Alanna discovered they wanted to test each other. Before he had passed the Ordeal, Alex had been the best of the squires; now he was getting a reputation as one of the finest knights in Tortall.

He and Alanna had been talking about what it was like to be good, with everyone watching for mistakes,
until it was only natural to find one of the indoor fencing courts and see which of them was better. They had agreed a referee was not necessary, since they were only using blunt practice swords. Not even Faithful was there.

Alanna watched Alex stretch as she did so herself, excitement running through her veins. She had always wondered if she was as good as her dark friend. Now she would find out.

Their stretching finished, they saluted each other with the practice swords. Without warning Alex struck, his hand flashing in a complex overhand pass that brought his blade within inches of Alanna's unguarded face. Only a quick backward leap saved her. She circled, watching Alex's chest. With all but the best fighters, muscle movements in the chest often betrayed the direction of the next attack—except Alex was one of the best. Like Duke Gareth, who fought without signals, Alex moved without warning. He swept his sword up and under; the blow would have ripped Alanna open from abdomen to chest if they had been using real swords. She lunged back once more, but not quickly enough. The tip of Alex's' sword sliced up her thigh, tearing her hose and gouging a deep scratch in her leg.

“Hey, Alex!” she protested. “Be careful!” The knight did not answer. His dark face was emotionless, his eyes unreadable. Alanna faded back, then lunged to the side and the front, coming at him in a straightforward strike. Alex met her: their swordhilts locked. Body-to-body, Duke Gareth called it, and it rarely happened. For someone as small as Alanna it meant real trouble. Alex strained, forcing his weight down, trying to make her fall to her knees. Alanna broke away and came back instantly, knocking his blade aside. The flat of her sword struck Alex hard on the cheekbone, and she stepped back, feeling ashamed. It was disgraceful to let her temper get away with her as she just had.

“Alex, I'm sorry,” she said ruefully, looking at the welt spreading across his dark skin. “Do you—”

Alex brought up his sword again, smiling slightly. His dark eyes glittered with something she couldn't name. He whispered, “Guard.”

Alanna was suddenly tired of this game. Determined to end the match one way or another, she lunged in. Alex locked with her again and knocked her to the floor.

Alanna rolled. Alex's sword-point struck the floor an inch away from her head, taking a chip out of the hard wood. She glimpsed his face, and what she saw
frightened her. His eyes were bright; the smile on his lips was suddenly nasty. She jumped up as he came at her again, but she wasn't quick enough. The flat of his blade smacked against her ribs, making her gasp for air. She swung at his side and connected hard, making him wince with pain.

This time she put her sword down. “I want to stop,” she told him. “Something's wrong!”

She got her sword up just in time as he struck. Their blades met and sparks flew. Alanna disengaged and got away.

Sweat trickled into her eyes; she shook her head to clear them. This was insane! He acted as if he really wanted to kill her; with a dull practice sword death would be
very
painful.

Alex closed in, unstoppable. He brought his sword up and over his head, coming down hard. Alanna dodged aside just in time; the blunt edge struck her collarbone rather than her skull. Bone cracked in her shoulder as she fell to her knees with a cry of pain. Helplessly she watched the sword swing up and down, unable to stop its slicing toward her throat. She closed her eyes. If he hit her in the neck, he would break it, and there was nothing she could do.

“Very interesting, Alex.”

Miraculously, Alex dropped his blade and turned. Myles stood just inside the door, Faithful at his feet. “You've certainly proved you're better than Alan. Of course, you
are
four years older, and you have several battles to your credit.” The older knight's words whipped through the air like a lash. “However, I think you two have played ‘Best Warrior' long enough. Or didn't you realize you had injured Alan?”

Alex turned to Alanna. The nasty smile was replaced by concern. “Alan, I didn't—here let me help you up—”